


If You Never Return

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Prince Derek, Prince Stiles, Prompt Fic, Rimming, Tumblr Prompt, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous Tumblr Prompt: what do you think about medieval royalty au where sterek are princes and dating /in secret/ and then out of the blue their parents tell them that they need to marry someone else (or at least that's what they understand) for political reasons?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Never Return

**Author's Note:**

> The Tumblr version of this fic (the original) was totally PG-13. But, I really wanted to flesh it out and add more, so this version is a lot heavier. Hope you enjoy. :]

Stiles sinks down against his closed bed chamber door, his practiced stoicism giving way to the furious, hot tears that have stung from behind his eyes since his father first sat him down. He tries to swallow the fiery lump in his throat, but it stays there, burning like acid through his esophagus.

His father’s health is so precarious now, he knows he can’t disobey.

Not this time.

Not about this.

Stiles wonders what Derek’s face will look like when he tells him. If Derek will cry for him or suggest they run away like he did when they were teenagers.

* * *

Derek had made growing up so _easy_ , facing adulthood responsibilities is so daunting without Derek by his side. Derek's bright, pale green-blue eyes was the sunshine that fostered Stiles' blossoming; the curl of his rare smile and the curvature around his handsome cheek gave rise to the vibrant colors of Stiles' thoughts.

Every summer since Stiles was five, Prince Derek would come to his father's kingdom for three months. 

Princess Laura sometimes fought for Derek's attention, inviting him to travel outside the country with her, but Derek always chose Stiles' company over hers. It probably would have been wiser for Derek to go travel with her, to build rapport with other ruling kingdoms, but Stiles would swear that Derek could only be pried from his cold, dead hands. Stiles loved Laura all the same as well, but he preened with satisfaction when Derek would choose him over her, over duty and travel. When Derek would turn away the company of others, blatantly ignore others speaking to him.

It often seemed that if the voice was not coming from Stiles' lips, Prince Derek didn't care what it had to say.

He bowed politely to Stiles' father, he only spoke when spoken to and sometimes, not even then. 

He was the very image of frostbitten, regal discipline.

But when Stiles was eight and under the impression that, because he held his nurses' hands when out in town, that he must always be holding someone's hand while walking, Derek offered his hand. Stiles would swear up and down that he'd be fast whenever Derek simply escorted him to the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning. Derek's eyes were so big and sleepy and his smile was so quiet, only just visible.

When Stiles was ten and starting French lessons and etiquette classes, Derek started learning French as well just to help him and Derek would participate as a student during etiquette lessons, even though he could have been outside playing. When Stiles was twelve and learning to bake with the kitchen hands, Derek would stand behind them and pass ingredients around as needed, watching over Stiles' hands kneading the bread and sniffing longingly when the scent of sweets started filling the kitchen.

There were even easier days than those. Warm summer days, lying on their backs in the soft, green grass. Winds would push around the clouds into shapes of livestock and wild hares and even when Stiles claimed to see the most inconceivably complex, fanciful creatures, Derek would nod, agree that they were there and he'd commend Stiles' creative eye. He would tell Stiles that his imagination was a wonderful place.

On days when they couldn't find anything better to do, they'd help the servants around the castle. Derek would heft Stiles up onto his shoulders so he could wash the tall windows and they would pull weeds from the garden, plant entire flowerbeds. Derek would sweat and smile in that private way that was reserved for only Stiles' eyes. The shifting colors of forget-me-nots and the sweet smell of blossoms made up much of their summers. The flowers sometimes grew in so largely, so vibrantly that Derek would ask to take home a bouquet for his mother. Stiles was never sure why Derek always asked when the garden was just as much a creation of his own hands. Stiles' father always permitted him.

When it rained, Derek would play the viol in one of the extravagant halls of the castle and Stiles would pluck nervously at his harp to harmonize, wishing to someday master it as beautifully as Derek strummed his viol.

Stiles remembers a hot summer day, when he was only fourteen and Derek was there, tall and broad for seventeen.

_The sun was high, the air humid and they were having an unofficial archery competition. There was a film of sweat over Stiles’ upper lip and a drop landed from the tip of his nose onto his tongue while he poked it out in concentration._

Derek was a lot better at archery than him, but Derek was wonderful company, even when smug, and Stiles was hard pressed to find better. He didn’t mind what they were doing, so long as he had those hours with Derek. 

_Stiles shot close to a bullseye and grinned at Derek, thinking Derek would be impressed. Derek wasn’t smiling, though. He wasn’t even looking at Stiles; he was staring at the grass beneath his boots. He looked pensive and somehow sad._

_He had suggested almost inaudibly, “Perhaps we should run away together.”_

_Stiles had let down his bow, his arms going slack._

_"Why ever would we need to?"_

_Derek didn’t look at him when he confessed, “I... very much want to kiss you. I think if I were to, I would never want to kiss the lips of another again.”_

_Stiles had swallowed with a click in his throat._

Derek had never spoken about his feelings like this before, being the quiet not-yet-man he was. Derek's feelings were often twinkling in his eyes when they were heightened and so Stiles had never struggled to connect. He was more in tune with Derek's feelings than either of them ever really understood.

_"You needn’t run away to do that," Stiles had said in way of encouragement._

_Derek had looked to him from under his dark lashes and admitted like a secret, "I fear I’ll never recover if I do."_

_Stiles had taken a step more towards Derek, letting his bow fall from his limp hand. He was shaking a little, nervous and frightfully excited. His heart always thumped loudly for Derek and he wanted to be kissed by Derek more than he could remember ever wanting anything._

_"Perhaps mine is a fever not so painful," Stiles had offered hopefully._

_Derek’s eyes shimmered and he leaned in, tilted his head and said, “Perhaps,” before kissing him gently._

_Stiles kissed him back, just a press of lips, but serene and altering and he had never thought for a single moment that **he** may not recover from it._

They kissed at the dark turn of empty halls, they held hands under tables and hooked their ankles together whenever they were seated close enough. Derek sometimes ran his hand down Stiles' cheek, brushing his thumb against the freckles peppering the turn of his jaw and he would sigh happily.

Stiles can remember when he was fifteen, when he was lying in his too-big bed, the summer night smelling thick and youthful out his open window and how Derek's silhouette had appeared in his doorway.

_He had panicked briefly; all that winter he knew Derek's mother had been trying and failing to find a satisfactory suitor for Derek to marry. It had been a long year to wait for Derek's return, a year of wondering if, at eighteen years old, perhaps Derek had outgrown him. Perhaps Derek didn't even want to return to Stiles in the summer, but did so like a lost creature retracing its steps to the only place it had ever known._

_"Stiles," Derek had whispered, climbing onto the mattress._

_Stiles' heartbeat was an anxious staccato, "Derek, I - "_

_"Silence," Derek had assured, "You are needlessly worried. I have only come to ease my sleeplessness."_

_Stiles flushed, embarrassed he had been thinking of such untoward motives. Derek smiled kindly at him in the moonlight and laid down beside him, curling his body towards Stiles'. He had muttered peacefully,_

_"Sleep, Love. I will seek out your flesh when you grant permission."_

_Stiles had blushed even more darkly, never having heard Derek call him by a term of endearment. Then he swatted Derek's head with his pillow for flustering him. Derek laughed and his teeth had been so white in the bright moonlight, the shaking of his humored belly making Stiles bite his lip with want._

Two summers later, when Stiles was seventeen and Derek had turned twenty, still without wife and still without promise of a wife, Stiles asked for him.

When Stiles was around sixteen, they had realized he was the better reader among them, so on particularly stormy nights, Stiles would sit on the floor by the fire and read aloud. Derek would shut his eyes, rest his head in Stiles' lap and occasionally complain that the female characters' voices were much too gruff. Stiles would flick him in the forehead for those comments and Derek would smile gladly.

_One night, while thunder rolled outside and the rain splashed against the stained glass windows of the study, Stiles paused in reading. Derek's brows had twitched and he had asked,_

_"Why have you stopped?"_

_Stiles pet back Derek's onyx hair with his spindly fingers and replied softly,_

_"I... might care to invite you into my chambers tonight."_

_Derek's eyes opened to gaze at him, his face cool and unaffected, but an air circulating around him that read more like a strain to mask nervousness or surprise._

_"You are certain?" Derek had asked._

_Stiles nodded and when the maids and servants and the King had long gone to bed, Derek's silhouette reappeared in Stiles' doorway. His heart pounded like a thunderous drum, the lightning crackled outside and sporadically lit up the room in an electric flash. Derek shut the chamber lock behind him, peeled off his clothes and crawled onto Stiles' bed. He peeled back the blanket covering Stiles' nude body and he kissed every inch of Stiles' skin._

_He started at Stiles' feet, kissing the heels and running his tongue up the arch, pressing delicate kisses to the rounds of his toes. He kissed the turns of Stiles' ankles, kissed the scar on Stiles' left calf that he'd received when trying to impress Derek by climbing higher than him in the same tree. Derek kissed that scar as gently as he had tended to it almost five years before. He kissed Stiles' inner thighs, biting gently and licking broadly._

_He kissed the incline of Stiles' hips, the thunder still rolling outside, Stiles' heart still pounding, every nerve alight. He sucked Stiles' down his throat, moaning in time with Stiles as he took Stiles' cock down to the root._ _His tongue made broad stripes up and down the thick veins there, swirling around the head before sliding his mouth off and continuing to kiss up Stiles' torso._

_He licked inside Stiles' navel, he ran his broad hands up the sides of Stiles' torso, kissing, licking and biting his nipples, rolling them between his fingers as he swept his tongue into the hallow of Stiles' neck. He sucked a bruise below Stiles' collar line, he kissed Stiles' cheeks and nose, gazed longingly into his eyes before leaning down to kiss him gently on the lips._

_Stiles writhed under him, gasping while his hands splayed over the corded muscles of Derek's back. He thrust up, the heavy feel of Derek's thick cock hovering above his an enticing promise. Derek kissed him languidly while the rain beat against the window, pulling Stiles' bottom lip between his teeth, sighing softly and growling wantonly when Stiles' nails would start digging into his shoulders._

_"Derek," Stiles had whispered, " **Please**."_

_"Anything for you, Genim," Derek had sworn._

_Stiles had groaned in embarrassment and pled, "Call me by my other name."_

_"No," Derek replied, staring with heavy-lidded eyes into Stiles', "Not here."_

_He moved his hands from Stiles' chest and slid them up Stiles' neck, gradually coming to cup his face._

_"Here - this place between you and I," He whispered sweetly, "is sacred. You and every letter of your name carries magic and tonight it is a spell we cast."_

_Stiles' eyes flickered back and forth between the pale green glow of Derek's and he had asked, "For what purpose?"_

_Derek arched his back, leaning his waist down onto Stiles' before saying against his kiss-swollen lips, "May your magic bind us together for all eternity."_

_"I can imagine nothing greater," Stiles confessed._

_Derek's lips spread into a smile and Stiles felt it on his own mouth, moaning on a sigh when Derek kissed him deeply again._

_Derek's hips rolled into his and Stiles gasped, hands scrambling for better purchase on the sweat slick skin of Derek's arms._

_"I - I have begged a nurse for oils - in the drawer, beside my bed," Stiles managed between gasps._

_Only leaving Stiles' overheated skin long enough to retrieve the glass bottle, he returned and bent between Stiles' spread legs. He wet one of his fingers in the oil, his palm coming up against Stiles' tight sac._

_He looked up to Stiles from under his dark, long lashes and Stiles' heart twisted nervously at his beauty._

_"I feel no fear," Stiles assured._

_"You never do," Derek smiled._

_Derek traced the veins in Stiles' cock with his tongue while he worked his fingers inside. Stiles gasped and moaned, gripping onto the sheets and blankets, shutting his eyes and lolling his head back, brows strung tight in pleasure-pain. He ground down on Derek's hand when Derek added a second finger, reaching inside him and prodding at the most sensitive parts of himself. Sweat beaded over his entire body, shining to match the oil moistening and making slick the hypersensitive skin between his cheeks. He eventually begged Derek to rush ahead and he was more surprised that Derek took an order from him than the feel of Derek's cock coming to meet his body._

_His hair was sticking up in all directions, a bead of sweat ran down the side of his freckled face as a drop of sweat dripped down from the crown of Derek's head, onto his forehead. He smiled up at Derek, eyelids heavy and he whispered,_

_"Be part of me."_

_Derek slid into him then, groaning as the thunder roared outside. He arched his back further, curling more into Stiles, snaking his arms beneath Stiles' back to bring him impossibly closer, make him impossibly hotter._

_Derek's skin was a fever and the noises they made were muted to the world by the raging storm outside, but the space of Stiles' room was small and Stiles was enveloped by the noises escaping Derek. Derek's strong brow was furrowed in a fight for control and Stiles assured him that there was no need for control. Not there. Not in the sacred place, not within the secret spell they cast. And so Derek thrust into him long into the night, murmuring prayers about the pleasures Stiles' body gave him, worshipping Stiles by pulling back on his hair and licking into his mouth._

_Stiles thought to himself that the fever Derek spread to him when they first kiss must have begun killing him, because he had never felt so close to Heaven._

_In the very early morning, the sky was grey and the light was fairly dim. The rain no longer pounded, but drizzled and tapped lightly against the windows. Stiles' body was sore and well used, satisfied and unwound in way he had never before felt. He let his eyes rest shut, knowing the hour was much too early to rise. Then he felt Derek move beside him, to hover over him. Stiles was resting on his stomach and along his back, he felt Derek's lips._

_He kissed down Stiles' spine and Stiles' hummed in pleasure. He lifted Stiles by the waist, spreading his cheeks and tasting there._

_Stiles cock quickly throbbed into fullness and Derek used an oil-slicked hand to bring him to completion while his mouth and tongue moved sweetly and zealously over the pink and sensitive skin of Stiles' hole. When Derek laid down, Stiles climbed onto him, his legs fitting beneath Derek's arms, facing away from him. He took Derek into his mouth, no oil residue left after the wet towel they had reluctantly used to clean up after the night before. He sighed happily for the taste of Derek's skin on his tongue, the way Derek's cock sat heavily in his mouth._

_As his mouth worked, his tongue twisting up and down, Derek leaned his head up to put his mouth back on Stiles' hole. Stiles moaned and Derek moaned back, having felt the vibration of Stiles' noises shoot through his body. Derek's fingers dug into thighs, tongue curling in and out of his body. Stiles swirled his tongue over the head of Derek's cock, eliciting a surprised cross of a moan and a gasp. Derek's head fell back and he slipped a finger into Stiles' hole as he moaned and thrusted up into Stiles' mouth._

_He warned Stiles before coming, but Stiles steeled himself and allowed Derek to finish in his mouth, swallowing what he could and letting drip out what he couldn't._

_A weak roll of thunder rumbled outside and when Stiles next woke up, Derek was curled protectively around him, swollen lips pressed to the back of his neck, hot arms keeping him still in sleep._

All the summers after that were filled with nights of the same pleasure and intimacy. Derek's private smile for him lit up his handsome face, Stiles' adoration and loving body instilled an unprecedented boost of confidence in Derek. He sang and whistled in the kitchen when he helped clean up whatever Stiles had baked; he spoke in French on days he particularly wanted Stiles out of his clothes. They laughed weeks away, overate and mocked one another's reading voices. 

And then Derek would leave.

Every year, Stiles would sweat nervously, shake and jump when someone mentioned Derek by name, ready to defend Derek's honor and status, prepared to hear that Derek had finally chosen a wife. 

And every summer, Derek would arrive at the castle gates, his guards in tow, his dark horse tall and his smile only for Stiles.

And for every night of every summer, Stiles would take Derek into his arms, into his body, into his soul and he would wait for Derek's confession. Derek's promise of undying love. Derek's request to stay with Stiles and give him all of the seasons of his life.

It never came, though.

* * *

And now Stiles bangs the back of his head against his bed chamber door, anxiety and mourning wracking his brain for having just met his fiancé. He sobs into his knees so long into the night, he falls asleep on the floor just inside his doorway.

* * *

"And what is her name?" Derek asks, his voice even and practiced as it always is.

"Lydia."

Derek nods, like he has a picture of her in his mind. Like she will do.

They are sitting at a table in the castle garden, vibrant pastel colors glowing in the sunlight, butterflies and bees and leisurely fluttering in the air.

It does nothing to help ease the cold wash of ice Stiles feels over his insides.

"You’ve nothing to say?" Stiles begs.

Derek looks off into the garden, avoiding eye contact with the servant refilling his wine goblet.

"What would you have me say?" Derek begins, "You are twenty-two now. This is late to marry."

Stiles glares at him, waving the servants inside. His eyes are watering again and he’s not sure why he is so angry. Maybe it is because Derek is twenty-five and has not even _considered_ taking a wife, but is telling him he's _late_. Maybe he thought Derek would fight to keep him with a grand show of almighty fury and loyalty, maybe he thought Derek would challenge his father for his hand, finally dropping his utmost formal pretenses.

"You feel nothing for the loss of me?"

Derek’s eyes turn sharply onto him, emotion finally beginning to glisten there.

He argues in a loud whisper, "Of course _I feel_.”

"You will not confess you love me, even now!" Stiles declares at the same semi-soft volume, "Even as I am _lost_ to you!"

Derek leans over the table, his hands curling into fists.

"Have you not heard it from the word of my body?" He asks desperately, "Have I not shown you and confessed to you in every brush of my lips and touch of my hand? Have the long nights we spent together meant _nothing_? What would you have me do?"

Stiles’ throat tightens as Derek’s brows spring up expectantly and he gestures vaguely at the castle, "Would you have me confront your father with what we are to one another? What we have done far from his knowledge all these years? Would you have me kill this woman? All so that I might remain your secret for another eight years?"

Insecure and nameless fury licks like flames through Stiles’ blood in a way only Derek can elicit. He glares with his teary eyes as Derek interrogates, "Will I tell you now so that you may never hear it again? Will I kneel for you, fall to my knees and dissolve to madness before you? So that you may hear what I have told you with my own eyes since the very day you graced them?"

Stiles flinches at the sound of Derek's chair scraping along the stone floor as he stands abruptly, sniffing sharply and running a hand through his obsidian hair. He rubs at his temple, shuts his eyes with a furrowed brow and breathes for a moment. Stiles watches him closely, feeling small and damaged and alone.

Derek hesitates before speaking again, very lowly and gravely, "You wish for my words?"

He turns slightly, meeting Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles waits.

"I am ruined."

Stiles’ heart sinks, his anger vanishes and the words hang like heavy steel in the air between them. Derek's eyes are swimming, glistening with something unknowable and untranslatable. Stiles' heart shudders.

"I am ruined," Derek repeats, quietly and more to himself, " _Ruined_.”

He strides out of the garden at that, leaving Stiles alone to blink the tears from his eyes.

He knows before he goes inside that Derek will have left on his horse, his guards in tow and knows by the quivering of his soul that Derek will never return.

* * *

Time passes.

The summer is quiet and the staff of the castle is stiff with unease. When the nurses that have raised Stiles from infancy try to engage him, in even simple talk, he has nothing to contribute. When they pry into his heart, inquire about Prince Derek, Stiles raises his voice and storms out of rooms. His appetite vanishes and weight falls from his body, leaving him lithe and often cold.

His father's health declines rapidly and Stiles takes Lydia as his wife before the start of fall.

The royal Hale family is invited and all attend except the Princess Laura and Prince Derek, claiming illness.

All through the ceremony, Stiles wonders on Derek, stumbling through his vows with tears in his eyes mistaken for sentiment.

He wants to blame Lydia for breaking his spell, but she smiles sweetly at him and his heart sinks further into his gut. Guilt coils his veins like a hissing snake and he smiles weakly back at her.

The royal Hale family leaves a generous wedding gift and though he won't meet Talia's eyes, she hugs him closely and wishes him unending happiness.

Time passes.

Stiles signs papers, allowing for Lydia to inherit the crown if any ill fate befalls him. The viol in the music hall collects dust and Lydia only knows how to play the lute. She sings much more sweetly than she plays. 

Her reading skills are limited and Stiles spends the coldest months of the year teaching her to better read and write. They grow close, but never close enough.

Stiles' tongue withers at the mention of food, he has taken down the paintings mounted through the halls when the colors fade and he no longer finds beauty in them. He starts taking medicine to sleep, his hands pick up a tremor he's never had before and he does not play the harp again. 

Time passes.

* * *

 

"You have loved another," Lydia mentions.

The spring has brought color back into the royal garden and Stiles spends most of his time out there now, staring and sometimes lying in the grass. He looks over his shoulder to her in surprise.

"How might you know that?"

"There are memories in your eyes and a long held kiss on your bottom lip," She says, touching at her own, "One can tell when a man has been kissed by love."

Stiles’ hand comes to touch absently at his bottom lip and she smiles gently at him.

"Why did you not marry her instead?"

Stiles’ heart lurches because he is terrible at lying and more than that, Derek’s face is etched into his mind, the sound of rain and thunder rolls in his head and he can smell Derek's masculine scent. He can see Derek's pale green eyes, staring into his.

"The stars did not align for us," Stiles answers vaguely. 

Lydia’s brows pull, like she knows he is simplifying something complicated with an understatement.

She shows him mercy by ignoring that and says, "They say love is a miracle only few are blessed with. To squander it is a sin."

"They may also say our love is sin," Stiles replies, voice rough.

She pauses, birds chirp nearby and then she nods, as though she understands. Stiles' throat is tight on a nervous swallow.

"Then I would have you know I love another."

Stiles' shoulders ease, tension draining slightly from him. He smiles, because he cares for Lydia dearly. He is ready to tell her that he will turn the other cheek.

"The knight?" He asks conversationally.

"Jackson," She names.

"Yes, the same," Stiles agrees, "I will have never thought for a moment your ties were anything but companionable. I would not ask you to squander your miracle, only that you allow my father to pass without fear of my loneliness."

"You are lonely despite me," She says defeatedly, sitting down at the table.

Stiles watches the shine of her red hair caught in a sunbeam, a soft breeze rolls by. The flowers flutter, their petals shimmering in the warming sun. The forget-me-nots are light colors and bees are weaving in and out around them.

"You talk in your sleep," She states.

Stiles' heart thuds loudly enough that he's worried she heard it. She tilts her head curiously and inquires,“Who is Derek?”

A long few beats pass where a thousand words tumble at the back of Stiles' teeth. They rest on his tongue like ash, bitter and unfulfilled.

"A fever dream," Stiles eventually answers.

It's the last he speaks of Derek for three years.

* * *

Lydia and Stiles are eating dinner one night when news of the Hale fire reaches them. A nurse that was a midwife to Stiles' late mother sits him down and tells him hurriedly about the plot to kill the family. She tells him that most of the Hale family burned and an entire quarter of the royal castle fell. She says that citizens are speaking about only two survivors, but the rumors are muddled. She only knows that it is either Derek and Laura, or Laura and their uncle Peter.

Four summers have passed since Stiles last spoke to Derek and everything he has ever wanted to say comes bubbling into his throat in a panic. He orders a guard to get his horse ready and he rushes to stuff a bag of necessities. He needs to know if Derek is alive. He needs to see with his own eyes, a fire burning in his heart where there has been ice.

His own father does not recognize him anymore and his wife is a warm friend, but his heart is empty.

As he throws on his cloak and heads towards the barn, Lydia stops him in her sleepwear, looking earnest and honest when she says,

"If you never return, I will understand."

Stiles kisses her cheek gently, runs his hand over her fiery locks and whispers to her that she has meant all the world to him.

He does not know what will happen when he sees Derek -- if Derek is there to see, but her release gives him wings.

His cloak billows behind him and he does not stop once on his four day trek to the neighboring kingdom. Not for food or sleep - he rides through the day and night, one long night of rain and it is still raining when he arrives at the royal gates.

* * *

"You have never looked so thin," Stiles says, still in awe that his memory never conjures Derek's beauty accurately enough.

He is breathtaking, even in his mourning.

There are dark circles under his weathered eyes and his scruff is dark against his grief-lightened skin. He is taller than Stiles remembers.

"You wear your hair much longer now," Stiles comments.

Derek’s jaw works, face carefully blank.

He has not spoken a word since Stiles’ intrusive arrival; the shock of Derek being there to greet him at the entry door drained every ounce of courage from Stiles' body. Being in Derek’s company is such unadulterated bliss that Stiles can’t be bothered by his own cowardice. In his heart, he knows he has no reason to fear Derek.

He presses on.

"Come," He says, "Show me to the kitchen. I will fix something sweet and warm."

Still saying nothing, Derek walks and Stiles follows.

The paintings on the walls are regal and familial, igniting a cozy flame of nostalgia in Stiles' heart. Something like satisfaction tickles at the edges of Stiles' soul with just the sight of Derek’s hair. The angle of Derek’s shoulders, the curve of his neck and the narrow of his waist — it is all a memory, wrinkled and distorted around the corners, but fast becoming familiar. Every fiber of Stiles' body begs to reach out and touch Derek, to verify Derek's body, to feel his solid reality.

"My thoughts have been an unwelcome space for most everyone since we last met," Stiles starts softly, "They cannot enter a single room of my mind without finding you already there."

Derek pauses in the threshold of the kitchen, the moonlight that paints the room blue and white is warped with the rivulets running down the windows. The floor looks like a moving tide for it.

"I am... truly petrified that you no longer love me," Stiles admits, old tears finally brimming his eyes, hands shaking with visible tremors, "I have been a ghost of my former self for all this time. I taste nothing, feel no warmth — I no longer dream. Seeing you... my world is rich with color again. My greatest fear is that... perhaps I have let too much time pass."

"Love is ignorant of time."

Stiles can only hear his heartbeat as Derek turns to face him. His pale green-blue eyes shine with a light Stiles remembers so fondly that he _aches_ with it.

He comes to stand in front of Derek, sees the lines under his eyes and says, "Perhaps we should run away together."

Derek’s lip twitches like he might just smile and it sends a thrill through Stiles.

"Laura was always better suited to the throne," Derek replies, "She would thrive in my absence."

Stiles reaches his hand out to touch Derek’s and Derek so readily twines their fingers, Stiles almost loses his breath. He raises his other hand and runs his thumb along Derek’s bottom lip. A tear slipping from one of his watered eyes.

He tells Derek, "You know they say that one can tell if a man’s been kissed by love."

"Do they?" Derek asks conversationally.

"They do," Stiles answers.

Derek’s lips do stretch into a shy smile then. It's not forever. It's not a grandiose admission of unfaltering and eternal love. But it casts a spell over them both, planting hope between the roots of themselves that have become so intertwined that there is no telling where one begins and the other ends.

Stiles leans in cautiously and closes the space between them, both of them knowing they won’t recover and both of them ready to let the fever rage.


End file.
